Sir Gideon led Mrs. Danbury to the Derwent coach, his arm about her shoulders. Mrs. Danbury did not look around or see me watching her.
As Sir Gideon's coach pulled away, Sir Montague spoke at my side. "A relieving verdict for the coroner, was it not, Lacey? Must have been tricky when he learned that all those Mayfair gentlemen were involved. Gentlemen with influence, upon whom his position depends, perhaps. Presiding over the case of a drowned prostitute or a dead vagrant is so much easier."
The coroner himself walked by us at this point, his lips thin. Unembarrassed, Sir Montague bowed to him.
"I noted that the coroner did not mention Inglethorpe's clothes," I said. "Or lack of them."
Sir Montague gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Why complicate things, eh? Most curious, though, is it not? I am interested in those clothes."
I thought about Inglethorpe lying on his back, feet apart, surprised and alone. Fine pantaloons had encased his legs, and his coat and shirt and waistcoat had been neatly folded on a hair. His shoes… I stopped, frowning.
"What are you thinking, Captain?" Sir Montague's eyes twinkled in the weak winter sunlight.
"He wore pumps," I said. "But their soles were muddy."
"Is that significant?"
"It is if you are a gentleman of his standing. Those shoes were not meant to be worn outside."
"No?"
"Grenville must have a dozen pairs of slippers he wears only inside his house. Inglethorpe's shoes were to be worn indoors with pantaloons. More to set off his feet than for function. Yet, they had mud on them. As though he'd run out into the street for a few minutes."
Sir Montague rocked on his heels. "To meet someone, perhaps?"
"Or he saw something outside the window," I said. "It surprised him, and he went out to investigate. Or he went out to bring a person back inside with him."
"Hmm. And then took off half his clothes. A lover, perhaps?"
"Perhaps." The explanation did not quite ring true. If a man had a sudden assignation, did he carefully remove his clothing and fold it neatly on a chair? Or were the clothes hastily ripped from the body and dropped on the floor, or not completely removed at all?
"There may be something in what you say," Sir Montague said. "By the way, Mr. Thompson told me of your doings in The Glass House the other night." He chuckled. "You must have put the wind up them."
I was not so certain. Kensington did not seem easily frightened; in fact, he'd been a bit overconfident, even when I'd broken the window. "Kensington is key to the business of The Glass House and Mrs. Chapman's death," I said. "I am convinced."
"Being convinced is not proof," Sir Montague said. "I want no holes in this case."
"I know. The girl I rescued could tell you an earful. I believe Kensington might work for a man called James Denis, although I have not confirmed that. But if you are looking for a man powerful enough to block the magistrates and reformers, it would be Denis."
Sir Montague nodded. "I have heard of him, of course. Corruption is rife, unfortunately, and his name crops up when corruption does. I'll question Kensington myself. Don't frighten him too much, yet, Captain. I don't want him slipping away or turning to Mr. Denis for protection."
"I have also put Sir Gideon Derwent on the scent," I said. "The child is staying with him. He is a powerful man, in his own way."
"Indeed." Sir Montague gave me another nod and smile. "You have done well over this. We will close The Glass House yet."
I felt pleased he thought so, but I wished I shared his optimism. James Denis was powerful and did not relinquish things easily.
Sir Montague and I took leave of each other then, he promising to keep me informed of what he did regarding The Glass House. He tipped his hat and strolled away, his walking stick tapping the pavement in a cheerful staccato.
I turned away, thinking to make for a hackney stand and home, and found my path blocked by the large bulk of Bartholomew.
"Hullo, sir. Mr. Grenville says, will you please join him for a meal at home. He wants you to hear my news." Bartholomew winked. "And I have a lot of it, sir."
Chapter Ten
Indeed, Bartholomew looked almost ready to burst. But he manfully held it in and helped me inside Grenville's carriage, slamming the door and leaving me alone with Grenville.
The carriage, warm and smelling of heated coal, rolled away even before I'd seated myself. Grenville gave me the barest nod then looked out of the window, pretending interest in the black landaus, hackneys, and carriages scraping by us.
He was displeased with me, and I had a good idea why. I merely said, "Thank you for the invitation to dine. I look forward to hearing what Bartholomew has to say."
Grenville finally turned from the window and looked me up and down, brows together. "For God's sake, Lacey, why did you give me that bank draft?"
I knew he'd become high-handed about the three hundred guineas, and I was not about to let him.
"To replace what you gave Kensington at The Glass House." I said. "Do not dare to try to return it to me."
"You know I cannot accept it. I paid that money to assist with the investigation. And if it helped take that little girl out of The Glass House, it was worth it."
"Perhaps," I said. "But I have no wish to be in debt to you. I've paid the debt, and that is the end of the matter."
Grenville glared at me. "You are bloody stubborn and too damned proud, Lacey."
"I know that. Plenty have been happy to tell me so."
We regarded each other steadily, he in his impeccably tailored suit not a week old, me in my worn clothing topped with a frock coat that had been his gift to me last September. I appreciated all Grenville had done for me, but I'd come to know that he rather liked to own people, and he used his forceful generosity to do so.
"I don't want to quarrel over this, Lacey," Grenville said.
"Than accept the money and have done."
He stared at me for another angry moment then stiffly changed the subject, but I knew he'd open the argument again when he could.
"Mrs. Chapman's funeral is today," he said. "Barbury sent me word."
"The coroner has released her body, then," I said. "I would like to attend. It will be interesting to see who appears."
Grenville said he'd come with me, and we fell into strained silence. Fortunately, the drive to Grosvenor Street was short.
Matthias let us out before Grenville's house and Bartholomew ushered us inside. Not long after that, I sat in Grenville's dining room eating the fine repast his chef, Anton, had created for us. Grenville spoke lightly on neutral topics-Anton took offense if we discussed anything that pulled too much attention from his cooking.
When we'd finished, Grenville bade Bartholomew and Matthias sit with us and share their findings. The two big lads cleared the table, served us port, and sat down to slurp glasses of bitter and rest their elbows on the table in a comfortable manner that was in no way impudent.
Bartholomew pulled a paper out of his pocket, words on it written in careful capitals, and handed it to Grenville.
"Mr. Inglethorpe's cook is a relation of my aunt's husband," he said. "She's quite chatty-the cook, I mean. So was Mr. Inglethorpe's footman. I also talked to some of the slaveys of the men who were at Inglethorpe's Wednesday afternoon. I wrote it all down, so I wouldn't forget."
"Excellently done," Grenville said, smoothing the paper on the table. "Let us begin with Robert Yardley. Who said today he remembered the walking stick but not whether anyone took it. Most helpful of him."
Bartholomew took a drink of ale. "Mr. Yardley is a bachelor, sir. Lives in Brook Street. Has only one footman, who is a country oaf in satin."
"Would Yardley be likely to stab Inglethorpe through the heart with a sword?" I asked.